Christmas Meander
by Mobabe
Summary: Ana and Christian share their first Christmas together after being reunited. Short story/one-shot sequel to Fifty Shades Meander that sticks closely to the vein of the original Trilogy by to EL James - strictly over 18's please.


**Dear readers, thank you for your support during the year. I wanted to give you a little something extra to thank you for the reviews. Merry Christmas! This is a one-shot sequel to Fifty Shades Meander.**

_My proof reader is already sleeping. Again I'll re-post the edited version when I can. _

**Sunday 18th December 2016 – One week before Christmas.**

"Like a real fight?" My scramble egg loaded fork stops midway on its path to my mouth, my startled eyes staring at Christian, bewildered.

_This is so typical of him!_ Smack bam in the middle of Sunday morning breakfast, casually and without a whiff of warning, one week before Christmas - which by the looks of things is going to be a crazy day and our first Christmas together as a family – he drops this bomb on me.

He's volunteered himself as a participant in the CEO/Celebrity Corporate Charity Challenge on Christmas day. I'm all for charities, especially the ones involving children and I love that Grey Enterprises, as a whole, give so much back to the community but to fight against a professional Muay Thai kickboxer, even if it is for charity sounds way too dangerous to me. That's not even considering what we've been through over the last two months – it's just too much for me to take in right now.

Oblivious to my anxiety levels that have just sprinted off the charts he shrugs, completely unconcerned. "Yes, Bastille and I can put in a few extra sessions this week. It's for a good cause. Why not?" Not really expecting an answer he picks up the Sunday broadsheet, giving it a shake before resuming his reading.

_Why not?! My heart is jackhammering its way out of my chest and he's asking why not?!_

I take a deep breath, desperately trying to push down the acidic panic in my gut. I hold out my thumb as I start my righteous countdown, "well, for one thing the guy you'll be fighting is a professional." I annunciate _professional_ like I'm spelling it out, the heavy emphasis on the word coupled with my terse tone and high pitch are all clues to my neurosis which I'm hoping he'll pick up on. Christian folds down a corner of his paper, peeking over the edge at me, a little taken aback by the vehemence of my argument.

Now that I have his attention I add my index finger, "secondly it's on Christmas day, as it is it's going to be mad busy, it's supposed to be a family day." My middle finger is the next one up, "thirdly I…. when…" my rationale fails, the third reason along with all the others suddenly eluding me. Actually, if I'm honest, there's only one but it's a big one – I'm scared blind.

After our ordeal I've become a tad overprotective of my small family, especially Christian, the thing is though that I don't know how to express this fear to him. Every time I've brought it up he's shrugged it off with some flippant remark about being able to take care of himself.

For some reason he fails to see that I'm not quite over the shock and worry I've endured – not by a long shot. Ironic really considering that he's the king of overprotectiveness.

He chuckles; putting down the paper he folds his arms over his broad chest, regarding me with blatant amusement. "You do know that Bastille is an ex Olympian and I regularly knock him on his ass?" his arrogant smirk proof that he's expecting to do well against his hardened, trained opponent. Mistakenly he thinks that my fear lies with the level of his skill.

"I don't care how good you are, he kickboxes for a living. Are you even up to something so physical after…" I can't even talk about it without a horrible, dry lump forming in my throat, my chest tightening with all the "what if's". I feel the light in my eyes dim as they drop to the floor, too vulnerable to show him the tears welling there.

"Baby?" his word is a question, cottoning on to the fact that something else is going on. I hear the scrape of his chair before he makes his way to my side of the table. Dropping to his knees beside me he reaches for my chin, turning my head so he can meet my down-cast gaze.

He rests both hands just above my knees, the warmth of his touch seeping into me, anchoring me to the present. "What's going on?"

"What if he hurts you?" It doesn't begin to put my fear into words. I know he's in great shape, was back in the gym a week after the incident and he healed at an alarming rate. Even that he did with skill that defied reason but I'm the one left with the slow healing scars of apprehension.

"Baby, I love that you worry about me but this is nothing. The guy's been retired for two years. He mostly trains up-and-coming fighters now. I've seen him in action. Trust me, I'll be fine." He's rubbing his palms along the length of my thighs, the slow rhythmic motion contributing, at least part ways, to temper my irrational fear.

The logical side of my brain agrees with him. It's just a charity fight with stringent safety precautions, they won't let one of the US' top CEO's get injured or worse - hell, they couldn't afford it if they did but then there's the whispering side. Mostly it's quiet but it sits on my shoulder, waiting for moments of vulnerability before it breathes ugly words of worst-case scenarios into my ear.

It sears me with impressions that haunt my waking thoughts, sometimes even my dreams. It stalks my imagination when I least expect it. One minute I'll be peeling a potato then, like the flick of a switch, I'll be staring at some unspeakable horror in my mind's eye, the imagery involving my husband and son so real my body can't help responding with terror and panic.

The gasp I take in shocked dismay is usually the thing that reconnects me with reality but the memory stays like a stain in my awareness, colouring everything else I dare to think about or do. Dr Flynn says it's normal after the trauma we've been through, that only the security of time's passing will bring me back my sense of safety but for now, I wear the fear like a second skin.

Blue into grey I search the lines of his handsome face as I cup his cheek, my thumb skimming the smooth contours of his just shaved jaw. Every line and curve I know and love. "You are so precious to me, I don't know if I can stand to watch you being beaten up."

Christian frowns, looking way from me for the length of a beat. When his watch finds mine again it's with a hint of amusement. "Baby, what do you think I do with Bastille every week?"

A little affronted I start; _obviously I know what he does with Claude._ "You… train with him. He teaches you how to kickbox." High red dots sting my cheeks with just enough indignant anger to give my voice and edge.

Christian nods calmly, his silence willing me to continue, his expression unreadable with his head tilted to the side. I shift in my chair, suddenly feeling uncomfortable as I focus a bit harder, sifting through my mental files but I only manage to draw a blank.

I've never given it much thought. I know they meet at the gym, they do their thing and Christian comes home unscathed, I've not seen as much as a bruise on him. With my head coming up empty I'm forced to admit that I don't exactly know what he does or, for that matter, how. I've never actually seen him train with Claude even though I myself use him as a personal trainer, not that we kickbox. Light weights and Pilates are more my style.

I glare at him, annoyed that he's made his point by hardly saying a word. In true toddler style I cross my arms over my chest, pouting. I know what's coming next; he'll say that Claude teaches him by fighting him. I feel stupid that I never considered it. I've seen Christian throw a punch or two in the past and you'd have to be blind to miss the fact that he's a skilled and agile fighter.

Like only a husband can he drives up my ire by smirking, well aware that his argument beats mine in logic by spades. "We fight baby. That's how I've learnt every jab, hook, cross, kick, swing and block." As if to prove his prowess in the ring he rises with a fluid, steady motion, his body graceful, every movement precise and economical. He places both hands on the armrests of my chair, leaning very close so his lips brush mine enough to carry the current that's always sparking between us.

With those molten eyes staring into mine he breathes, "So you see, there's nothing to be concerned about. You may even like it." He takes my mouth in that dominating way of his, licking deeply before he finishes with a firm kiss. Devilish is what I would call him now as he winks at me, mouth curved into a knowing smile.

_Gah!_

That thick skull of his is impenetrable to my state of apprehension, unfathomable for him to think that something might go wrong even though, very recently, it did. I sigh, making me give in to him is what he does best, "I'll go but I won't like it. Not one bit and Chris will definitely not be going!" I give him a look that says I mean business, grabbing a handful of his shirtfront.

He answers with a throaty laugh, relaxing in what he seems to think is friendly banter. "You are so hot when you play tough Mrs Grey."

_I wish I was playing…._

"Mommy, daddy, look what I made!" Chris barrels into the room with his usual energy, his exuberance interrupting the sublingual message I was trying to convey to my currently clueless husband.

We both turn to him, dropping our discussion and encouraging him with our smiling faces. Christian beams at him with delight but mine is a little off – no less sincere but the weight of my anxiety prevents it from touching my eyes. Ever since we got married we quickly established a higher priority for him and his needs, a good habit to get into with a toddler even though it's unspoken.

"Show us champ." Christian has already picked up so much about parenting, surprising me more and more with his patience and sharing Chris' childlike excitement. It's almost as if he is reliving his childhood through Chris, righting the wrongs of his past as we go.

Whenever he's able he makes the effort he gives Chris his undivided attention, even making a point of communicating with him at eye level. This time he picks him up and as usual our son blossoms under the consideration, his love for his father clear in the hero-worship awe of his baby blue gaze.

Very proud he holds out a picture he just drew. Not willing to be left out I stand, joining my boys as we look at his creation. Typical of any four year old it's mostly scribbles but he gets his idea across. With bold, primary coloured crayons he's drawn his family, not just me and him but Christian as well.

I watch Christian's throat work on a swallow, eyes large and fixed to the page, "tell me about your picture champ." I admire him for asking, just to be sure but there's no denying the catch I hear in his thickened voice – the drawing is clear enough.

Chris looks at him as if he has two heads, obviously questioning his dad's eyesight or intelligence and I have to stifle a giggle, "this is me," his little finger stabs at the smallest figure on the page. Again he catches Christian's watch, checking to make sure his dad is following his explanation, "this is mommy and this is you."

_Such a small thing but such a big moment. _

"Thank you son. It's the best one I've ever seen." I slip my arm around Christian's shoulder, giving him a squeeze while I kiss my beautiful boy on top of his head, loving that he's done this without prompting.

Christian manages to hold on to his bright smile in spite of the obvious emotion that's overcome him. By the quiet reverence he's holding the picture and his awe struck expression it's clear that it's touched him deeply. For Christian this will represent Chris' acceptance.

"You can keep it daddy." Chris' magnanimous nonchalance proof that he'll never realise the gift he's just given his father.

"Thank you," he whispers again and hugs Chris closer. "I have just the place for it." With Chris still in his arm he strides across the room to his study.

"Where are we going daddy?" Chris is only too happy to keep his perch while I follow my guys, curious to see how this plays out.

"You'll see," comes his cryptic reply.

In the study Christian takes a moment to look at the wall that's adorned with all his awards and press photographs. Mostly they show him with other industry leaders and, in some cases, heads of state. It's the culmination of all that he's worked for in his exceptional life, the show-and-tell of his astounding success.

Without as much as a thought he lifts an impressive looking award off the wall where it's hung in a place of honour amongst many others. He rounds his desk, sitting Chris on the edge as he works on the back of the frame to take out the gilded card. Discarding the award on his desk he replaces it with Chris' drawing then hangs it back up, the location leaving no doubt of its favourable status.

Chris claps his hands while Christian surveys the change with a look of pure satisfaction.

"That looks very good Mr Grey, your best yet!" I slip my arms around his waist pressing my cheek to his back.

Christian takes my wrists and pulls me tighter against him, "my very best Mrs Grey, my very best." Both of us share the lumps of sentiment the poignancy brings.

Another vulnerable moment brings another whispered thought - _I would simply die if something happened to these two. _

-0-

The rest of the week is a blur as it flies by with all the planning for Christmas and the preparations for the ten day break Christian is taking from work. Chris' drawing has brought me some welcome inspiration for Christian's Christmas gift, something I've been mulling over unsuccessfully for weeks. It's another thing I rush around to get done on time.

The flurry of activity along with the constant meetings with Julie Logan keeps me busy but regardless of Christian's assurances, I can't shake the unease about the fight.

Last night, during our Christmas Eve dinner he mentioned that Claude would act as his coach for the match and that together with the other fighter's coach they've established some mutually agreed upon rules. That made me perk up a little until Christian explained - in detail - that the style of kickboxing that he will be participating in is _"old-school and not some watered down generic version."_

_Of course he'd go for the most punishing variety_ I thought to myself as I threw my mental hands in the air, exasperated. My anxious heart slid a little further into my shoes as I kept my head down to avoid showing him how hard I found listening to his excited chatter.

With the Muay Thai style the opponents would be allowed to use elbows, knees and the kicks that were agreed on before the match which, according to Christian, are all of them. Cosmo "Good Boy" Alexandre is Christian's opponent and a former WMC Intercontinental champion. Although two years retired he's allegedly very fit and by all accounts eager to face an ex Olympian's protégée in the ring.

Christian only makes it worse by giving me the Brazilian's impressive fight statistics and mentioning that he's known for his powerful kicks and exceptional blocking. I could see that he was relishing the idea of taking on this pro, to test his skills against someone other than Bastille.

_Great!_ I thought sarcastically, anything from three to twelve rounds that last two minutes each was sounding more and more like torture to me. I hated the thought of watching someone trying their best to beat the crap out of my husband, especially for fun.

Christmas day was heading toward me like a freight train – collision, at least where my thoughts were concerned, was inevitable.

Christmas is always something I look forward to, but today its arrival has brought me nothing but tension. The information Christian shared with me last night still twisting my gut into knots. Dr Flynn's advice was to trust that all would be well, that when I started feeling scared I should consciously drag my thoughts away from any mental meanderings of what might happen and instead focus on what I know are the facts.

He made me write these facts out, the visual aid of seeing the length of the list a good tool to remind me that my fear is only one small part of the whole situation and all its possible outcomes. He, like Christian also suggested that I might enjoy watching the fight.

_Ha!_ I thought, _that will be that day!_

I swing out of bed and retrieve the hidden package from my nightstand, feeling just a little resentful that this looming fight is eating away at my Christmas cheer. As quietly as I can I slip down the passage to Chris' room to wake him. He'll be devastated if he's not included in the gift exchange. Together we can surprise Christian in his study.

When I open his door I find him sitting up, a grumpy look on his face, "I've been waiting for you mommy!" he whispers loudly. "What took you so long?"

I grin, I should have known that he'd be up early with all the excitement of Christmas brewing around him. "Hi buddy. I'm sorry I just woke up. Are you ready?"

With a single bounce he's out of the bed and at my side. "Yay! Let's go mommy! Can I give the present to daddy?"

He's so adorable, "Sure honey but remember; it's a surprise so don't tell him what it is." I remind him again because he nearly gave it away yesterday. Chris was with me when I ordered it a week ago so I had to explain what it was and what it was for, he's way too inquisitive to let anything slide by unnoticed. I went to great lengths to explain that it was a gift and that it was meant to be a surprise.

I was impressed that he's managed to keep it to himself but last night Christian was teasing him about being a good boy and what Santa might bring when Chris piped up, "Santa isn't bringing you anything daddy. Mommy bought you a surprise. It's a…"

"Ip, ip, ip, ip, ip!" I interrupted quickly, tapping my finger on my lips, my large eyes imploring with him to swallow his give-away words.

With equally large eyes he looked at me, nodding and whispering so loud the world could hear. "Oh yes! I forgot. I won't tell daddy it's a book." Shaking his head in earnest, I could only giggle at him and Christian's eager beam.

_So much for entrusting toddlers with secrets._ At least Christian didn't know the details, I could see it took everything from him not to grill Chris for more information; he loved getting gifts from us.

We creep along the corridor, Chris doing an exaggerated cartoon-style tip-toe that's making it hard for me not to laugh. We file into Christian's study doing a good job of our stealth approach because he doesn't even notice us, engrossed as he is in his work. I nudge Chris deeper into the study and the movement finally catches Christian's eye.

"Merry Christmas!" we cry out and Chris runs to him, rounding his desk and shoving the present into his lap, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. "Open it daddy, open it now!" he crawls onto Christian's lap for a front row seat.

I catch Christian's storm gaze, lit with a deep contentment that has all sorts of things stirring in me as I bend down to kiss his lips. "The first of many Mr Grey," I breathe, coming away with my heart clenching at the sight of the two of them together and happy.

His smile is nothing short of breathtaking before he drops his look to tear into the wrapping of his gift. It's hard not to think of Edward Scissor-hands when I see all the little bits of paper fluttering about as he claws his way to the prize.

The sharp intake of his breath and Chris's delighted squeal is my reward. It's so hard to buy him something; obviously he can afford anything his heart desires so the gifts he values are the sentimental ones.

"See daddy, it's me!" Chris clasps his hands to his chest, proud to be on the cover of a book.

Briefly Christian makes eye contact with me again, the hue of his irises shaded with sentiment, alive and animated. As he starts to turn the pages Chris becomes his narrator, "this is me when I was a baby but I'm big now. I'm four!"

Christian laughs and hugs him closer. "You are champ." When he opens the following page I watch him do a double take as the picture is of us as a family. Impossible as Chris is maybe two months old with me holding him proudly. My mom took the photo at the time but the very helpful graphic designer at the photo store Photoshopped Christian into the picture. Admiring the picture from across the desk I have to say she did a fantastic job.

The whole book is a chronicle of Chris' life since his birth. A beautiful, hardback book, the pages semi-gloss and stunning, just like any coffee table publication. Seeing that he missed the first four years I thought this would catch him up on the memories, be a way for him to be part of a past that I can't change no matter how much I want to.

There's always a chance that he wouldn't like it, that all it would do is remind him of his unwitting absence so I watch his reaction very closely. Softly I let out a banked breath when I see the look of wonder on his face, I think he likes it.

Not all the photos are changed but many of them now sport my handsome husband, father of my son, placing him with us at that time. There's Chris' first taste of solid foods, his mouth pursed, a tiny frown marking the strange experience of textured food. Another is of me nursing Chris, looking very tired but utterly in love with my baby boy.

Christian grins at Chris' first haircut pictures. He refused to sit still that day and in the end we went home with him missing a big chuck of hair, the clippers devouring it with his ill-timed squirm.

Many of them are of impromptu moments, captured on my phone camera when Chris was doing something silly or adorable. He seems so lost in the images that I become a little nervous. "Do you like it?"

He drags himself away from the images, the warm glow of his love startling when he meets my gaze. "Anastasia." The way he breathes my name says so much about what he's feeling, it leaves no doubt that he loves his gift.

I smile and he shakes his head, still too overtaken to say anything more. It feels so good to do something that touches him so deeply, affect him on the levels where he needs it most.

Relieved I perch on the edge of the desk, content to take a trip down memory lane with my two favourite guys. When Christian closes the book Chris takes on a whole new level of energy, he looks up to Christian, expectation flashing like a neon sign on his sweet face. He's too polite to ask but he desperately wants to see what Santa brought him.

Christian was a delight to shop with, a big boy choosing a toy for a little boy. I had my hands full stopping him from purchasing the whole store; we even had to have a little talk about overindulging children. In the end he settled for a battery operated Jeep. Something I'm sure Chris will have hours of fun with at the new house.

Christian kisses his check, "Thank you for my beautiful gift." I get a quick wink before he too succumbs to the excited buzz, "Shall we go see what Santa got you champ?"

"Yes daddy! Please!" Passing me he takes my hand and kisses my forehead. His unspoken message of _later _clear as I follow them into the great room, grabbing my camera along the way. I want to make sure that Christian is in our pictures for real from now on; also I can't wait to snap Chris' face when he sees the mini four by four.

I'm not disappointed. Chris looks at the car as though he can't trust his eyes. He walks around it with his mouth open, almost too scared to touch it and ruin the mirage. Then, with a little bit of encouragement from Christian his reverential hand reaches out to touch the plastic. We chuckle as he yanks it back with a shrill squeak of utter delight.

He jogs on the spot, face scrunched up with glee, his rapid-fire claps resounding through the room. He turns to us and at full tilt runs into our legs, hugging us furiously. "Thank you daddy! Thank you mommy!" Even I'm impressed that he's come to thank us before hopping into the Jeep like a seasoned off-road driver. My little boy is deliriously happy.

Christian spends a minute to show him how to operate the little vehicle before he takes a little drive through the open spaces of the great room. Just as Christian slips an arm around my shoulder Brandon steps into the room.

"Sir, Mr Grey is here. He's come to collect Chris." Even today we have security staff close by.

_Boy, time sure has gotten away from us this morning._

I get a rueful smile and a heated look from my husband before he gives his okay to Brandon to show Carrick in. Making sure I'm decent I start on coffee for the men. Chris will spend the morning with Christian's folks so that we can go to the damn fight.

I sigh, noting that I don't feel any better about the prospect of watching my husband in the ring with some prize fighter.

After Christmas wishes, coffee and packing Chris, Jeep and all into the SUV with Carrick we're alone again and another hour closer to the CEO/Celebrity Corporate Charity Challenge. _Why couldn't Christian volunteer for something mild - like golf?_

Christian finds me in our bathroom, finishing my make-up. Stalking toward me he slips his arms around me as I apply the last stroke of mascara. He rearranges my hair over one shoulder and kisses me along the curve of my jaw, watching me in the mirror.

"I love the gift Anastasia." The shivers he gives me when he says my name like that are like small jolts of electricity.

I smile. Even to my own eyes I look besotted, love-struck. "I couldn't be happier Mr Grey; it was a joy to see your face."

With a smile of his own, a twinkling one, he slides an envelope onto the vanity counter. "Santa might have gotten something for you as well." His husky baritone and thick length pressing into my behind suggesting that Santa's gift has nothing to do with what's in the envelope.

My heart does a quick stop before resuming at a galloping pace. I try to ignore his naughty grind, too curious to see what's inside. "What is it?"

He quirks a brow before dropping another kiss, this time right behind my ear. "Why don't you take a look?" his warm mouth so close to my skin makes it hard to concentrate. Closing my eyes I will my hormones to settle before I reach for the mysterious gift.

Once opened it takes me a minute to figure out what I'm looking at. The documents look official, some of them related to a bank. Suddenly the heading of the first page jumps out at me; it's the deed documents of the house on the Sound.

_Huh?_

Slowly I turn to face him, looking at him with the question. He runs his fingers through my hair then cups my jaw in his hands. "I don't ever want you to go through what you did when you left. No money, nowhere to go."

My blood drains from my body, suddenly I feel uncomfortably hot and my head swims. _What?_

He doesn't look at me, staring instead at the papers in my hands as he speaks in a low tone. I can see how painful it is for him to recall those days. "Whatever happens between us I never want to think of you and Chris doing without."

His words deal crushing blows to my already overwhelmed heart as I come to grips with what he's trying to tell me. "So you want me to have the house?" I can barely speak past my constricted throat.

"Yes," he says decisively. "The house and the two trust funds I've set up. One for you and one for Chris."

_Ah, the bank papers._

It's my turn to search his gaze, my heart bleeding with his generosity and the haunted sound of his voice, knowing that I put that ghost there. "Christian. I'm not going anywhere and this gift. It's too much." There's nothing in the world right now that can stop my streaming tears. Leaving, coming back, getting remarried, the horrific threat played out in our lives, the up-coming fight and now this. I can't hold back anymore the damn that's burst a while ago.

Sobbing I bury my head in his chest, unsure what to make of the source of his generosity - _guilt, fear?_ All I know is that I love him more than l can explain.

His strong arms band around me, crushing me to him. "Hush baby. It's not what you think, please don't worry. I just want the peace of mind of knowing that no matter what you're taken care of. Don't fight me on this; it's a gift to me as much as it is to you."

His words, though comforting only make me cry harder. I'm always blown away that he knows exactly what I need in moments like this. Most men would run a mile at a tearful woman but he just holds me, his powerful body a fitting metaphor for the anchor he is in my emotional life.

When the shudders cease he lifts my head, worried eyes find mine. "Please accept my gift baby."

I don't know why I bother to fight him on anything. _Who can say no to that?_

I nod, biting my lip so as not to cry anymore. Smiling now he brushes the wet trails from my cheeks before touching my lips with his, the brief contact searing me with a zinging spark. We stare at each other, surprised at being surprised by the force of our attraction. Like magnets our lips smash together in an inevitable meeting, lips, tongue, teeth – all determined to show how much they care.

Dazed and breathless we draw apart, our bodies primed for love. Christian rakes a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. "Mrs Grey, I've never wanted you more." He grits between harsh pants.

I'm doing no better but I know we're out of time. "Promise me we'll finish this later." I plaster what I hope is a sexy smirk on my face; I don't want him walking away from this with regrets.

"Wild horses Mrs Grey, wild fucking horses." He gives his head a clearing shake. With a grin he lets out a long breath, still eyeing me in a way that makes me feel incredibly desirable before he turns to get ready.

"Christian." I call him back.

In spite of the hurry we're in he stops and comes back. His actions makes me feel important, cherished. With a coy curve on my mouth and a rosy glow on my cheeks I speak two simple words but I hope he can see the truth of them in my eyes, "Thank you."

-0-

The Key Arena at the Seattle Center, I'm stunned to see is a hive of activity. Obviously it's a huge event to draw a crowd this size on Christmas day. We've just learnt from Claude that Christian's fight will be the main event today, another piece of information to taunt my frayed nerves.

With an hour and a half to spare before Christian makes his appearance Claude takes Christian, me and Brandon to Christian's private locker room for the day. I listen to them talk about their preparations, wrapping Christian's hands, warming up amongst other things while Christian holds onto my hand with a grip made of steel.

I guess he can sense my skittishness and knowing that I'll have to wait for the fight without him makes him eager to comfort me now. I'm grateful for his effort but I'd much rather we go home.

Claude's question to Christian brings my focus back to their conversation. "No sex then mate?" he asks once inside the utilitarian room. Brandon is waiting outside the door to escort me to our seats.

_Huh?_

Christian glances at me with smouldering eyes and kisses the back of my hand to hide his boyish grin. "No but only just." He tells him staring into my bewildered eyes.

_Claude has a say in our sex life?_

Claude smirks then quickly wipes it off his face when he sees Christian scowling at him. "Give us a moment please. I'd like to say goodbye to my wife." The emphasis on _wife_ provides a hint of the green eyed monster that's never far away from Fifty.

Claude leaves us, amused, "You have five." To stress his point he holds up his hand, fingers splayed over his retreating shoulder.

Quick to dispel his jealousy I pull him against me, "Claude does nothing for me."

I can see by his sheepish grin he feels a tad bad about his outburst, "I know. I just wanted to explain about the sex. It's not like I discuss it with people." Lightly he runs his hand along the side of my waist. "Claude takes this very seriously and when he was competing they were taught never to have sex before a fight. He made me promise that I would abstain for this one."

I laugh. "Ah. Okay. Now that you mention it I think I've heard of something along those lines before. Good thing then that I stopped your amorous attack. I would hate for you to lose because of me." I flutter my lashes, feeling all feminine and girly with all the testosterone hanging around.

His free hand grips my behind, squeezing and pushing me further into him. "Never Mrs Grey. I could never lose because of you. In fact…" He kisses me and groans as I give him my tongue. "I'm going to win today because of you."

Right now, before this silly fight I don't want to do anything to jeopardize his chances so I play along in spite of the tight fist of dread in my belly. "You do that Mr Grey and there'll be a reward of your choice waiting for you."

"Mmhhh," he licks his lips as his gaze turns darker, "my choice?"

I graze my lip, letting my teeth sink slowly into the plump bottom half. "An-y-thing you want." I let my tongue linger between my teeth, watching him.

"When the fight is done, let Brandon bring you here." My inner goddess thrills at the sight of him adjusting himself in his pants, the sound of his raspy, turned-on voice.

_Mmhh, locker room sex_…. I'll do just about anything to have him back in one piece.

As I hug him for good luck, another idea pops into my uneasy head. Mad is good for fighting right? I once watched a documentary that showed a coach hitting a boxer before a fight to get him angry; maybe I can do the same.

Right before I exit the door I turn my head, throwing my words over my shoulder like the lifeline I hope my advice will be. "Just think of "Good Boy" kissing me if you need some fighting inspiration." With that I slip out and let Bastille in, knowing full well that he won't berate me in front of his coach. I hear his angry grunt as the door closes behind me.

_Good! Angry is good._

Brandon escorts me to our seats, all the while looking around for potential hazards. Usually I find it comforting but today I can't help sharing his vigilance, my fear ushering in a spike of nervous energy.

Looking around I see the crowd growing. The arena is almost packed to capacity, the holiday crowd enjoying the fights. From what Christian told me I know there are a whole bunch of sporting events that one could enter into. Anything from swimming to golf, running, football, baseball and many more, all being held today at various venues across the city.

The concept is obviously popular because the current guy being pummelled black and blue is Matt Bomber, definitely not someone who's doing this simply for publicity. The public gets to bet on their favourite with winnings split equally between the Children's charity and the better. The charity takes all on a losing bet. All the CEO's and celebrities volunteer their time and effort.

I'm beginning to irritate myself as I shift in my seat, unable to get comfortable or to stop fidgeting with anything in my immediate reach. If this is how Christian's fight is going to go I might faint.

It's clear the crowd mostly backs the underdog and they cheer wildly whenever Matt scores a punch. Lots of people have placards with "We love you Matt" and "Go Matt" that they wave around enthusiastically. He seems fit enough, landing some good jabs and I suspect the highlight as well as the last of the classic boxing division for today but there's no way he's winning. It's my understanding that the judging is done fairly and not biased in any way to favour the celebs.

I can almost hear the minutes tick by, at the end of this round the kickboxing division will start, only one fight away from Christian's event. As if on cue the referee blows his whistle and ends the fight holding the professional boxers hand in the air to show his victory. Matt can be proud as he loses by score and not by knockout. The crowd doesn't seem to mind their bets going for charity, they stand and applaud happily.

To get some fresh air while I still have time, I ask Brandon to escort me to the ladies. Breathing deeply I try to find my happy place, visualising the long list of positive facts I know about Christian and this fight, just like Dr Flynn showed me as I wash my clammy hands.

When I join Brandon he hurries us back, the kickboxer that was up first, the CEO of a huge chain of hardware stores was knocked out in the second round. The arena is in semi darkness as we take our seats, my heart stuttering in my chest along with my breath. A single spotlight is focussed on the ring where a presenter is sweeping the crowd into a frenzy for my husband's fight.

Dismayed I'm forced to wave at the crowd as the main camera finds me, broadcasting a live feed onto the huge screens around the arena and into millions of homes across the nation.

The stranger next to me squeezes my arm, "Exciting isn't it?" she says, her lipsticked mouth smiling benignly at me.

I smile back, feeling anything but. Alexandre runs onto the square waving his gloved hands in the air. Dressed in red and yellow satin shorts with his name emblazoned across them he jumps around the ring, keeping his lean muscles warm and ready. His bare chest and arms are decorated with large, swirling tribal tattoos; his dark skin already glistening with sweat. The crowd howls and yells; eager for the main event to start.

Christian is up next; followed by Bastille they both share the same serious, focussed expressions. When he raises his arms he looks every inch the champion and takes my breath away. Magnificent is the word that comes to mind. He looks like a Greek god with his perfect rippling muscles and larger-than-life personality. He wears blue satin shorts that bare the Grey Enterprises logo on the front of the thick elastic banding his waist.

The crowd goes ballistic and I realise what a rare glimpse of him this is for them. Fiercely private and mostly unconcerned about receiving publicity for his charity work, very few people ever get to see him in person. I've also seriously underestimated his appeal, both physically and as an Industry leader. Against all my instincts I feel my sex clench at the primal nature of two males fighting.

As if he knows exactly what's happening to me he turns my way and blows me a kiss off his heavily padded glove. Again I appear on the Megatron, this time blushing every shade of red. After placing my hand on my heart for him and another timid wave for the benefit of the crowd all eyes turn to the ring below.

In the centre of the ring the referee has a word with them and makes them punch gloves together in a gesture of sportsmanship. The round bell dings and it's on, my heart pounding away quicker than the seconds passing.

They round each other, keeping their movements lithe while kicking and jabbing as if they're measuring the distance between them. Cosmo strikes the first serious blow, his foot colliding neatly with Christian's torso. I gasp and hold my hands over my eyes. Peeking through my fingers I watch him follow up that kick with a jab and a rapid fire cross-counter to Christian's head. Both reaching their target with effective grace.

_Oh no! Why is Christian not fighting back? Is he scared? Does it hurt?_ In my panic I grip Brandon's arm, digging my nails into his flesh.

"You can relax ma'am," he says kindly, leaning in. "Mr Grey knows what he's doing. I won't be surprised if he wins this fight. I've got some serious cash riding on him."

I nod but I'm not ready to let go of his arm. I have to admit that Christian doesn't look worse for wear in spite of the raining blows but all I see him doing is blocking.

_Come on Christian,_ I egg him on in my head.

Suddenly Christian spins on his heel, surprising his opponent with a semi-circular kick against his side and ends his combination with a short straight-punch right on Cosmo's chin. I watch in horrid fascination as he reels back, clearly surprised at the force of the strike.

"Yes!" I hear Brandon hiss beside me.

When the round-bell goes I can't believe that two minutes are gone. It felt so quick and so slow all at the same time. Claude rushes to Christian's side and offers him a drink while gesturing with his expressive hands about strategy. All too quickly the opponents are facing each other again.

Christian doesn't lay low like he did in the previous round. He starts a sequence of jabs, crosses and uppercuts that all connect with Cosmo's face. When he starts to block to ward off the attack Christian applies an overcut with his rear hand, putting his body weight behind the punch it obviously delivers a great deal of force. Within moments he has Cosmo against the ropes – helpless.

The referee steps in to separate them, giving Cosmo space to move again. With a shake of his head he swings at Christian with a backfist from the front hand but he sees it coming and ducks out the way. With Cosmo's arm still in the air Christian rains blows on his unprotected torso. The powerful black man staggers back just as the round-bell dings.

Claude slaps Christian on the back and shoves water in his hand, his mouth moving non-stop with advice. Round three starts and Cosmo looks a little better. This round seems more evenly matched as both of them land some strategic blows, kicks and knee strikes. I can't help being swept up in the crowd's roar as the adrenaline pumping through my veins pushes back my reservation.

Now that I've seen Christian in action I feel more confident and may even be ready to admit that I'm enjoying myself. My husband sweaty and active, muscles rippling in a virile display of male dominance has me more than a little wet.

My train of thought leads me to the possibilities of the locker room afterwards but it's quickly interrupted by the start of round four. Brandon is explaining that even though two minutes for a round seems like a short time, at this level of intensity the fighters are tiring quicker and quicker. Now is a prime time for taking the fight home.

Christian seems to find an extra boost of energy, his graceful movements pronounced as he bobs and weaves and slips away from Cosmo's attempts. I remember Christian telling me that it expends a lot more energy to miss than to make contact with your opponent and I can see what he means. While he's looking fit and fresh, Alexandre's movements seems to be laden with lead.

Christian's knee connects to the front side of Cosmo's abdomen, spinning around he flexes his leg, his hook kick landing his heel on Cosmo's head. The combination leaves him dazed and vulnerable, his blocking hands too low to protect his face.

I find myself mimicking his jabs with my own mini versions, growing more and more excited. _Fuck, this is so hot!_ "Finish him off!" I yell, hands bracketing my mouth as I cheer my husband to victory, forgetting myself completely.

Christian delivers another series of punches, one following the other, fluid and merciless it's clear he's out to win. The crowd is chanting, fist pumping and carried away. A side knee snap strike takes Cosmo by surprise. Christian takes full advantage and brings in a rising knee strike, the explosive snap hitting him under the chin. He teeters for a beat then falls, spectacularly and into oblivion.

I jump off my seat, bouncing up and down as I whoop with the crowd. The referee counts Cosmo out and raises Christian's victorious hand. He wins by a knockout. _Fantastic!_ I don't remember why I was so worried, all I want to do is get to that locker room and award my sexy husband with his well-deserved prize.

Brandon lets me pass and steers me by my elbow, neatly navigating our way through the throng of excited spectators, many of them shouting their congratulations as we pass. In the safety and quiet of the corridor Brandon can't contain himself and gives me a rare view of the man behind the security persona I see all day.

"That was terrific! Mr Grey was amazing." Brandon is a little younger than Christian and seeing him through his employee's eyes is a novel experience that I relish. He respects Christian and that makes me proud.

I smile, my head nodding in agreement, "That was awesome! I can't believe I was so worried."

"Yea Mrs Grey, you sure were!" he laughs and rubs his forearm that I'm pretty sure still has the half-moon slithers of my nails imprinted on it.

I wince, "Sorry about that."

We stop in front of Christian's door where my brief knock gets answered in the tick of a second. Christian acknowledges Brandon with a quick glance before he ushers me inside. The sound of the locking snib behind me echoing through the room and into my core, awareness of my body suddenly acute.

My pulse takes off. My husband is still in his shorts but his hands are free of his wraps and gloves. The overhead lights highlighting the dips of his rippling muscles and the sheen of sweat that covers it.

My breath flees as the goose flesh breaks out across my skin, tightening nipples poking through the thin, skimming fabric of my dress. "Congratulations Mr Grey. That was one hell of a fight." The breathless words I speak drips with my carnal intent, I feel like devouring him. I'm as ready and as hot for him as I'll ever be.

He shares my desire, his lids already heavy with want. "Thank you Mrs Grey." He steps closer, heat radiating off him, the smell of his exertion is masculine and enticing, begging to be licked. I do just that when I lean in and lick along the sharp ridge of his jaw, over the stubble that makes him so manly.

He doesn't touch me but sucks in a hard breath, surprised at my audacity. "Mrs Grey, tell me, did you enjoy yourself?"

I drop my gaze as I flush with scarlet. I said I would hate it but, turns out, I love seeing him fight. "I did," is all I can manage past my dry mouth. I close my eyes to take another deep pull of his scent mixed with sweat. Slowly I run my hands up his arms, slippery with his moisture I feel every perfect turn of his bulges.

"I can tell," he breathes against my lips now. "I can smell your arousal Mrs Grey." It's a good thing he grabs me around the waist because just them my legs give in; shaky with shock and need, his dirty words arrowing right into my sex. Lifting my dress he pierces me with a single finger, forcing into my soaking depths to confirm his statement.

He chuckles darkly when I moan, "I'm also going to punish you Mrs Grey. For making me jealous and mad earlier." Not that I thought it was possible but my skin starts to burn for him, every single nerve crying for his touch, light or hard, soft or firm, gentle or rough - whatever he's prepared to give to me I'm willing to take, his choice is his reward.

He tugs at my panties, the elastic cutting into me before it snaps and falls ineffectively between my legs. He walks us backwards, retrieving my ripped underwear along the way. Bunching it up a takes a deep drag, filling himself with the smell of my sex. He groans and pushes me up against the door. "Turn around baby, arms up and against the door."

I do as I'm told in the small space his hot body confines me in. He lifts my dress over my head and throws it aside. Another quick move has him out of his shorts and naked at my back, caressing my ass with a practised hand. The other is running up and down my side, finally finding my breast and my aching nipple to play with. The touch of his hand tugging my bra cup down distracts me from his hand coming away from my behind.

When the first slap falls I mewl with pleasure, having let go of the guilt that used to accompany this form of love. I thrill at the sound of Christian's labouring breaths as he takes the opportunity to grind himself into the wet apex of my thighs. Mimicking the sex act by dragging his length along my swollen lips.

"Have you missed this baby?" he purrs into my ear then licks the shell, making me shudder against him.

"Yes." I hiss, my flesh humming with anticipation.

His hand leaves my nipple and trails down below, finding that sweet bundle of nerves primed for release. Placing his finger in just the right spot he smacks me again, forcing my hips onto his pleasuring hand.

_Urgh!_ I cry out, feeling the roar building inside.

"You want more?" his wicked grin evident through his seductive words.

"Yes. Please." I choke out the words, my body and mind carried away by a wave of sensation.

Christian smacks me four more times, bringing me right to the edge of my orgasm. His shaky breaths and threaded words proof that he too is close to falling. "Grasp your ankles baby; brace yourself with your back flush against the door."

Without a moment's hesitation I bend over and does what he says, feeling no shame about my utter vulnerability and access it gives him as my sex is open and on full display - I trust him completely.

"So fucking hot," he spits as he dips a finger into me to smear my wetness onto the head of him. With a hard, sure thrust he enters me, a hand gripping my hip with a biting force. The strangled noise coming from his chest and the drag of his heat over my sex starts the spiral I've been craving.

Confined as I am I can only take it, no shifting, no adjusting just absorbing his rhythm that's growing faster and faster as he nears his release pounding into the end of me. With twin strangled cries we meet as we fall, juddering through the crashing ecstasy.

Christian may have to become a professional fighter and I think I may be over my irrational fears!

**Kickboxing info from Wikipedia, also I like to thank the reader that suggested the photo book, unfortunately I can't remember who you are but thank you nonetheless. Please remember to review.**


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